


lift my face to it

by summerstorm



Category: Make It or Break It
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Divergence, Episode Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 15:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14115639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: She’s not entirely ready for it the first time she sees him after she finds out Lauren leaked the kiss — her first kiss, even if it barely counted; the one time she was stupid and irrational and let her hormones get the best of her. She wants to know if he knew, she wants to know — she doesn’t know what, but being at the Training Center has put some distance between her and Boulder, and there are words bursting at the seams in her head, moving too quickly to pin down, but not quickly enough to miss what they’re getting at.-Or, Payson realizes she still wants Sasha, and she never stopped, and maybe this time she can do the smart, mature thing and actually say it.





	lift my face to it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookiegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiegirl/gifts).



> This is set sometime between 3.03 and 3.04. We're pretending Rigo doesn't exist, or you can wait for the not-yet-existent follow-up where she tells him she can't see someone when she's still hung up on Sasha (but in vaguer words, because Sasha's still her coach), which is what I actually had in mind here.
> 
> Happy Age Gap Ex, cookiegirl! I really hope you enjoy this story. I'm a little rusty with these things, but I had an absolute blast writing it, and I hope at least that shows.

Sasha doesn’t come down to Colorado Springs as often as Payson’s parents do, but he tries to keep an eye on their progress, and Payson is glad for it. Even if Coach McIntire is working out okay now, he’s not Sasha. He’s not the one who will be training with Payson day in and day out until it’s time to leave for London and then while she’s there and maybe, if it’s worth it, if she’s lucky — or if she’s really, really not — after.

She’s still not entirely ready for it the first time she sees him after she finds out Lauren leaked the kiss — her first kiss, even if it barely counted; the one time she was stupid and irrational and let her hormones get the best of her. She wants to know if he knew, she wants to know — she doesn’t know what, but being at the Training Center has put some distance between her and Boulder, and there are words bursting at the seams in her head, moving too quickly to pin down, but not quickly enough to miss what they’re getting at.

She talked to Sasha about the kiss, once. A few times, really, which all amounted to once, anyway, because all she wanted to do was erase it, stop feeling so embarrassed, so ashamed that she thought kissing her _coach_ was a good idea, that he might ever— that he’d ever think of her like _that_ —

Ugh.

Payson doesn't know why reporters keep asking her about the time she kissed Sasha. It's a non-issue, it was resolved, and it's none of their damn business. He did nothing wrong. _She_ did nothing wrong. She doesn't want to talk about it anymore. She never wanted to talk about it in the first place. She wanted to put it behind her, and forget she was ever that naive.

But she wants to know if Sasha knew about Lauren, because Payson should have known, and he should have told her, _someone_ should have told her long before now. It feels like she might explode if she doesn’t get it out of her system, and Sasha — she trusts Sasha to be honest, and she trusts herself to remember he lost so much more than she did with Lauren’s stunt. She knows _Sasha_ wasn’t out to get her.

So she needs to ask.

*

"It wasn’t my place to tell you," he says. His voice is firm, certain, but Payson knows him, and she can tell — sometimes — when he’s not as sure as he sounds. She can’t explain it, but he looks smaller, somehow.

"You are grossly overestimating Lauren’s importance in my life," she says anyway.

Sasha shakes his head. "Payson," he says, quieter than before, almost careful, "you wouldn’t be this angry if she wasn’t important to you. And you know that. I may be your coach, but she’s been your teammate for what, ten, twelve years? You needed to rely on each other. You still do, maybe now more than ever."

She scoffs. "So you were just going to keep this from me forever?"

Sasha squares his shoulders now, and looks her right in the eye, and Payson hates herself a little for the way it makes her feel even now, to have his gaze on her like that, to be the one he’s looking at like nothing else in the world exists, or matters. For a second, Payson almost believes that.

"I don’t know," he says, unapologetic. "Maybe. You’re doing well. Lauren is going to be there right alongside you for most of it, all of it if they know what’s good for them. And Lauren—" He trails off with a certain finality to it, and Payson can guess how that was going to end. _Lauren doesn’t need a reason to fall back on her old habits_ or _Lauren needs stability if she’s going to make it through this thing you freaked out about at me on the phone, which didn’t sell me on you not caring about her, to be honest_ or _Lauren messed things up for you once and telling you would have been a second_ or, who knows, maybe it’s _Lauren was right_. Maybe it’s _Lauren had the sense you didn’t to nip this in the bud_ , and boy if it doesn’t make Payson feel guilty, imaginary though it is.

But Sasha doesn’t pick up on any of it, or chooses not to comment on it, because all he does is say, again, that she’s doing well.

And the thing is, she is. She really, really is, and in a second it’s like all the breath goes out of her. All the rage and the hurt and the pain pick up and walk out the door, and she’s left with a longing she couldn't make out the shape of, if it wasn’t standing right in front of her.

And she bolts, because this was all she wanted to ask, all she decided she was justified in asking, and she can’t —

"I gotta get to the gym," and she grabs her bag, and she flees. There’s no better word for it. The words bursting at her head are clearing out, inking themselves out, and she wants to know what they say; she needs to know what box she’s got to put them in before they come out without permission.

She knows first hand how bad it is when she can’t make a decision, and these words feel weightier than an impulse kiss.

*

Sasha usually sticks around for the day, doesn’t watch practice because it’s private, but makes the driving hours count. It’s not that long to Boulder, just two hours when her dad drove her down, and she’s had a stray thought or two about heading up herself, sneaking into real life at the Rock without her and Lauren and Kaylie or even Emily, with Becca being the normal teenager Payson never wanted to be, and seeing — god, she doesn’t even know. What it would have been like to be a gymnast with no hopes of making elite. What it would have been like to be able to train in one place her whole life. What it would have been like to train with Sasha from the moment her parents decided her gymnastics were worth uprooting their entire lives for.

She’s proud of where she is. She’s proud of how she got here. And sometimes, she’s relieved beyond measure that none of the things she wants a glimpse of were true, because — because Sasha met her later. Because maybe —

She shuts it down quick, because it’s a no. It’s always been and will always be a no. Because as much weight as she’s carried, as much as she’s ever felt the whole world was on her shoulders, she’s still eighteen years old. And maybe in her heart it doesn’t matter, but she can’t fault Sasha’s for feeling what it does. Even if her wanting has only grown stronger, and she’s only a strong set of morals and a lifelong dream away from stripping down to nothing in front of him and seeing what he does.

That’s only for her and some nights to know about, and certainly not for her — or anyone — to think about during training.

She puts it out of her mind — compartmentalizes it, seals it, focuses on what’s right in front of her — and reaches for the low bar again.

*

The thing about the neat boxes in Payson’s head is that she rarely lets them gather dust. She never did before her injury, because there was nothing that awful in them, or that distracting, but she tries to face what’s on her mind head on even more since she found out where shutting down got her the hard way. She’s good at focusing, sure, but it helps a lot that she loves gymnastics practically to the detriment of everything else in her life and always has.

She’s always tried to keep an eye on those boxes, mulled them over so they wouldn’t grow wild like weeds, but she’s never had a box that glowed from the inside like this.

She could ignore it, play it safe, pretend she hasn’t been kindling a futile hope until it’s caught fire, but — that’s not who she is. That’s never worked for her. And Sasha’s here today, and god knows when she’ll see him again, so it’s not hard to tell Lauren she’ll drop off her bag for her when Lauren looks like she’d rather get kicked off the National Team than endure walking back to their apartment together, and then it’s not hard to find Sasha and convince him to help her carry everything back to the dorms.

It’s terrifying, maybe, but it’s not hard.

She gestures for him to come in and closes the door behind him, but doesn’t lock it. She doesn’t know if she wants the escape route for him or for herself.

"Can I," she starts, leaning against the kitchen counter while he leaves Lauren’s bag on a chair and sits down on the couch. She grimaces and presses her lips together minutely, steels herself, "tell you something?"

"Of course."

She sits down next to him, at a respectable distance, because they’re in the living room of a dorm that she shares with Lauren, among other people, and well — it’s private but nothing is ever private, is it? Maybe this isn’t where they should be having this conversation, but she thinks they need to have it— no, scratch that. She wants to. She wants him to know. She wants to see if it changes anything.

She doesn’t consider herself a selfish person — self-centered maybe, a little too focused sometimes, not always because focus is a good thing as long as you don’t lose sight of the sacrifices, and take stock of what’s being sidelined for the sake of staying on track — but she gave herself time, she gave herself distance, and the truth is, well.

"I’m not sorry I kissed you that day, Sasha," she breathes, unfolding and refolding her hands on her lap, risking glances at Sasha but mostly trained on her uneven nails, the shape of her knuckles, the lines on her palms.

Sasha leans forward with his forearms on his knees. His shirt is rolled up almost to his elbows, and his jeans are worn, and she wants to touch him, feel the warmth of his body, the solidity of his lean muscles, the roughness of his skin.

That’s the truth. That’s what hasn’t changed in a year, maybe longer. Many things have, and maybe Payson thought this one would shift right along with all the others. And they don’t owe anything to each other, but she thinks she owes herself a chance to put the truth out there, to let him know what he will with it, even if — most likely — he does nothing.

"I never thought you should be, so that’s good," he tells her softly. She smiles a little, and it feels so awkward. She’s not sure what her face is doing.

"I am sorry I kissed you in the gym," she adds, and lifts a hand to stop him because she’s not done yet, she needs to get this all out in one go or she’ll lose her nerve. "Because it was definitely the wrong place and the wrong time and I guess I’m sorry I got out — I don’t blame myself for it, I’m not apologizing for that, but I’m still sorry like… I wish that hadn’t happened?"

He nods minutely, which she only sees out of the corner of her eye because the most she can face him is about a second at a time, so she keeps going.

"It’s just — I think what I’m really sorry about is that you didn’t kiss me back, if it was the only time I was going to have that chance." She risks a longer glance at him, but she can’t read his expression, the restrained smile, the bright eyes. It could be pity, and she doesn’t want to see that. "I guess I wanted — I wanted to feel —" Deep breath, and now she really sits up and looks him directly in the eye, because she doesn’t want him to think she’s not sure, or that she’s ashamed, because she isn’t, because she just realized how certain she is of this one thing. "No, actually, I didn’t. I wanted _you_. And I still want you, so that’s — probably something you should know."

Silence stretches for a few seconds. He doesn’t stop looking at her when he straightens up in the ratty thing that passes for a couch here.

"I get if you can’t coach me anymore. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I just needed to get this out. I didn’t last time and that’s probably why I kissed you in the first place and that was a disaster and—"

"Payson," he says, soft enough that she barrels on.

"—I think I wasn’t completely deluded that it wasn’t just me, but we never talked about it and I know I’m only eighteen and this is not going to mess with my gymnastics but it hasn’t gone away in this long and I just don’t think it’s ever going to—" She stops because there’s a hand on her face, large and warm, and she’s so confused she loses her train of thought.

Then she forgets everything she said at all because Sasha is kissing her, and her brain is so slow to catch up with that that he pulls back before she can even react. "Are you sure—"

"Yes," she says, "shut up," and kisses Sasha Belov for the second time in her life.

This time, he doesn’t push her away, and she doesn’t run. His lips are a little chapped, and he kisses her slow, his tongue barely brushing her teeth before retreating, staying shallow, mouth warm and insistent but careful, dropping down to her jaw She tries to hold back and fails, crawls into his lap because she can’t stand not being that close to him. Because he’s warm and he wraps an arm around her hips, low enough she could sit on it, she could—

"My room is that one," she says, gesturing to it with her head, and doesn’t have to ask him before he rises to his feet, holding her up with one arm while his other hand is on her face, her hair, slipping down the length of it and cradling her head again. "It’s unlocked, but you should probably—" She moans a little, surprises herself when she realizes she’s rocking against his hip, her chest heaving, breasts that feel like they’re craving his hands on them. "—lock it from the inside, Sasha, please."

In hindsight, all of a sudden, she realizes how little he’s ever denied her, and it rushes through her like lightning as her back hits the door and her legs wrap up tighter around him.


End file.
